Sinking Like Stones
by broilthesuspect
Summary: Follow-up of sorts to my OS "Good Enough For Me." Takes place as Booth wakes up from his brain surgery at the end of S4. My take on what would happen if the neurosurgeons were not able to remove all of the tumor in Booth's brain. AU, Brennan's POV.
1. Done For

**Sinking Like Stones**

**-broilthesuspect-**

**Rating: T  
********  
Summary: Follow-up of sorts to my OS "Good Enough For Me" (you're welcome to leave now and read that first, it's fairly short). Takes place as Booth wakes up from his brain surgery at the end of S4. My take on what would happen if the neurosurgeons were not able to remove all of the tumor in Booth's brain. AU, Brennan's POV.**

**Advisory: I do not own the show Bones or the characters involved in this story. I just enjoy filling in gaps and re-writing my version of the show we know and love. This story will not have fluffy bunnies running rampant, however, I am inclined to say that if you read it, you will be touched in some way by it. Hell, you might even enjoy it.**

* * *

It was nearly silent.

I could hear both of our breathing patterns clearly; his more shallow and inconsistent than mine. I lay beside him, head resting a bit uncomfortably on his clavicle and suprasternal notch.

Booth had lost weight in the progression of his disease, causing his previously well-defined musculature to become atrophied and weak. The bones of his face and chest protruded more than I could have ever imagined to see. However, this temporary discomfort was welcomed in trade for simply being able to hear his heart continue to beat.

I propped myself up on my forearm just enough to see his face. The dull flicker of the television danced across his features. To any other bystander, this was not Special Agent Seeley Joseph Booth. It was the shell of a man once known and revered; a reminder that even the strongest of us are vulnerable to the most unimaginable, horrid circumstances. Visitors asked why I'd want to stay when he looked so different than the man he'd been. Hadn't we only been 'official' (as he'd called it) for a short period of time? Weren't we basically still _just partners? _Why stay now? Why elongate the inevitable?

While I appreciate candor and facing a problem head-on, I found myself frustrated with their points of view. The reason I stayed, although made out to be complicated to those looking from the outside in, was fairly simple: this was still Booth. My Booth. The same man he was before any of us knew about the brain tumor swallowing him alive.

Denying the ways in which he'd changed would have been foolish of me. Entropy is inevitable, as I'd once told Booth, and he certainly had demonstrated that. He'd lost weight, become a bit more impulsive, reached out to those he'd 'neglected.' But the metaphorical underlying structure of Booth was there. His physical bones were intact, but more so, his character 'bones' remained. He was still strong, brave, loving, protective, and passionate. Even as he grew weaker and more lethargic, I could see _my Booth – _I could see the foundation holding the frame steady, not wavering for the hurricane-force blows he was receiving.

I reached out and gently stroked the outline of his zygomatic bone beneath his pallid skin. The dark shadow in the space between this and his jaw quivered slightly in response to the contact. His eyes blinked several times heavily before meeting mine. The orbits of his eyes were sunken and dark, but in the hollows remained the two warm brown eyes that had been there since the day we met.

_I may have been discussing de-fleshing techniques to a lecture hall full of admittedly bored students at American University, but until the tall and aesthetically pleasing man in the suit walked in, I was simply counting down the minutes until I could take off those wretched high heels and slip into something more comfortable. Even gum boots would have been an improvement._

_At first he barely opened the door and peeked in. He looked interested and quite surprised. I knew immediately that he could not be a student or instructor at the University because he came into the classroom and walked straight up the aisle with no regard for the lecture taking place. As I finished my explanation of the boiling technique, I asked the class and our unexpected guest if they had any questions._

_The man immediately spoke up. "Yeah, uh, I have a question. It seems to me that if you remove the flesh, aren't you destroying the evidence?" He smiled in a way that made him seem overly confident. I wondered if this man was from the Board of Educators, stopping in to audit my course. I had spoken with other Professors that had found these auditors to be annoying and rather irrational with the questions they asked in order to challenge the instructors and see how they responded under pressure. _

_I rarely feel this 'pressure' that others refer to. I am highly intelligent and see no reason to metaphorically 'sweat' when I am challenged intellectually. Statistically, I am smarter than most people, after all. I responded almost immediately. "On the contrary, I am revealing evidence." _

_His smile grew wider as I spoke, and somehow I could not manage to keep the corners of my own mouth from mirroring his. He was rather handsome. Even someone as intelligent as me cannot avoid primal attraction. _

_The bell rang and the students filed out quickly. Moments earlier they were practically asleep but now they had energy to jog out of class? I had a doctorate in Kinesiology and I still did not understand this phenomenon. The suited man walked through the throngs of students, most of which could sense his imposing presence and walked far around him as he made his way to me. _

"_Just one more thing," he said as I turned around and retrieved my notes from the table behind me, "isn't all the good evidence in the flesh, you know, like the poison and the stab wounds and the bullets?" I could tell he obviously still believed that he was right. _

_I glanced at him briefly, trying to determine why he had come there that day. The way he filled out his suit indicated that he was in good shape. His triangular upper body suggested that it was not just a product of good metabolism, but probably also involved a gym membership. His hair was neatly combed back, but the haircut itself suggested that he did not wear it this way all of the time. His outfit was bland, a black tie and shoes with a black suit - excellently tailored, I might add. The way the jacket fell on his right hip indicated that he was carrying either a concealed weapon or a cell phone on his belt. I assumed the former. All indicators pointed to law enforcement rather than educator, so I continued to make my point known. _

"_All of the important indicators are written in the bone if you look carefully." Frankly, I wasn't in the mood for a discussion. He was very pleasing to the eye, but the fact that my feet were throbbing allowed me to focus away from him once again._

"_So that's your thing," he asked with a grin. Were the bodies behind me not convincing enough? Why did it matter? This man walked into my lecture unannounced and was questioning me about my line of expertise?_

"_Yes," I answered curtly. "I'm the best in the world." _

"_Oh." He seemed surprised. "So you're being serious." He must have thought I was being humorous. It wasn't the first time the mistake had been made. I was undeniably the best in the world. Especially considering my age and standing with the foremost Anthropological experts and societies. _

_I decided to be indirect and get him to offer up the information that I was already sure of. "Are you a student here?"_

"_Special Agent Seeley Booth from the FBI." He smiled, most likely thinking I would be impressed by his title. I smiled in return, more for the fact that I was right about thinking he was a member of law enforcement. I stepped off of the lecture hall's stage and finally got a long look at him. _

_His eyes were a warm brown, complementing his olive skin tone and dark brown hair. His features were nearly symmetrical, showing wear of old scars and sun damage. His jaw was rigid, but fixed in a grin that allowed a dimple to display prominently on his right cheek. His neck was thick and muscular, although I could see the protuberance of his Adam's apple showing just above the crisp white collar of his shirt. Now, I was most assuredly smiling because I was impressed by what I saw before me. _

"_I'm Doctor Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institution." Surely he knew this already, seeing as he had walked into _my _classroom. However, the structure of our society has etiquette that must be followed to be taken seriously. I shook his hand. His handshake was firm, his rough calloused palm creating a slight friction against mine. I felt a sudden warmth spread throughout my body; my smile grew as evidence of this._

_In one of the most ridiculous lines I've ever heard, he asked "Do you believe in fate?" I responded that I absolutely did not. The idea was ludicrous. However, he could have asked me if I believed in spirits or mermaids or even the extraterrestrial and I probably wouldn't have found it to be overwhelmingly tacky, given the two brown eyes that seemed magnetized towards mine. _

His brow furrowed as he searched my eyes for something I couldn't quite determine. I read his look as worry. Silently reassuring him, I rested my hand on his cheek covering the side of his jaw. His brow unknit as he closed his eyes. Stubble prickled my palm; I felt his jaw clench beneath my hand.

I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, now meeting with his once again. His arm that lay beneath my head folded toward me, resting on my hip. He smiled ever-so-slightly as he squeezed the flesh of my hip beneath my pajama pants. For some reason, this was satisfaction enough. I drew myself close to him again, pulling tangles of wires and tubes out of my way. Snug against his chest, I felt his heartbeat. I placed my hand flat on his abdomen, just below his pectorals, fanning my fingers out as if to make as much surface contact as possible. Without hesitation, he placed his own left hand over my right, covering it with no effort. The warmth from his touch radiated throughout my body.

If but for a moment, the beeping of the monitors, the glow of the television, and the smell of disinfectant faded away. If I believed in such a thing, I'd suppose this was an out-of-body experience. Our bodies became one entity, joined by skin and proximity and time and … love. This was new territory for me – technically not new, as Booth told me, but newly discovered. He hypothesized that I'd loved him for years, but did not recognize the feeling as such. "It's a new beginning for us," he'd said. A chance to make up for lost time…

Lost time. A concept I definitely did not fully understand until I met Booth. My life and choices were mostly made in order to further my career, education, standing in the Anthropological realm, et cetera. I kept my days packed with activity so that I didn't fall behind. I needed to become something great to avoid becoming invisible. While I saw this as well-utilized time, Booth once pointed out that I should stop and smell the metaphorical roses. He said I should try to enjoy life. I thought that that was what I had been doing. His intent in his statement was more to get me to engage in activities that did not involve me getting ahead. It was with Booth that I first went ice skating since I was a child. With Booth and Parker, I'd learned how to play 'Sharks and Minnows' in the community pool I'd never even utilized. With Booth I'd enjoyed late night talk shows over Chinese food – something that the more rational and practical Dr. Temperance Brennan never would have done in favor of sleep.

Perhaps this concept of 'lost time' wasn't what I thought it was. I had been under the impression that social opportunities and having fun without accomplishing anything were a waste of my time. Not until I met Booth did I realize that relaxing and being frivolous occasionally could actually be the thing to hold me together.

So when Booth kissed me in the operating room before his surgery, I could not help but feel like this was a missing piece. Something had finally fallen into place and we were going to be better for it. He and I deserved to be happy. We deserved to have someone to love us unconditionally. After all the years of back-and-forth and flirting and almost-kisses, surely we deserved this.

But as I lay beside this ill, wonderful, frail, brave man, I became somewhat distraught. Perhaps this was irrational, but something about this image was not right. The right people, the right time, the right feelings. But the circumstances did not add up. This wasn't how this was supposed to be.

It was nearly silent.

* * *

**AN: ****This first chapter is a short jump to the middle of the story. I felt that it was important to make sure that the overall feeling of the story was established instead of starting off slow (see my first fic, "Pain in the Past"). In due time, you'll see my vision for it, and hopefully it will fill you with a contentment like it has with me. **

**This is the part of the chapter where I ask, nay, beg you to please do me the honor of entering a little comment right down there. It can be just one word, a smiley, constructive criticism, or you could wow me with your brilliance and offer a nice little play-by-play review. No matter what you do, let me know what you think. You can also find me on twitter (at the same name after the ) and tell me all about it there.**

But for right now, type something into that little box right down there...

Thanks for reading!

-broil


	2. When You Wake

**Sinking Like Stones, Chapter 2, When You Wake**

**-broilthesuspect-**

**Rating: T  
****  
Summary: Follow-up of sorts to my OS "Good Enough For Me" (you're welcome to leave now and read that first, it's fairly short). Takes place as Booth wakes up from his brain surgery at the end of S4. My take on what would happen if the neurosurgeons were not able to remove all of the tumor in Booth's brain. AU, Brennan's POV.**

**Advisory: I do not own the show Bones or the characters involved in this story. I just enjoy filling in gaps and re-writing my version of the show we know and love. This story will not have fluffy bunnies running rampant, however, I am inclined to say that if you read it, you will be touched in some way by it. Hell, you might even enjoy it.**

**This Chapter: We're headed back in time... this chapter takes place right where my last story "Good Enough For Me" left off. Booth just had brain surgery. ****Now, on with the drama.**

******The title of this chapter is from a song by one of my friends way back in middle and high school that is now a budding artist with a hauntingly lovely voice. **

* * *

_I'm no flower in a vase  
I am both the leather and the lace  
I will not say no  
And I'll only go the way I want to go_

_But I want to be your goddess when you wake_  
_Want to be the one to make you stop and pray_  
_And I want to be your goddess in the sun_  
_The one you turn to when the day's begun_

_-Kerri Lowe, "When You Wake"_

* * *

The sun crept in the window, assaulting my face as I attempted—albeit unsuccessfully—to get some sleep. I groaned and pulled the thin, scratchy blanket up my body and over my head.

It was day six of this restless vigil, and I had had about enough of sleeping in such an uncomfortable chair. I was nearly certain that sleeping on one of the Jeffersonian's examination tables would be more restful than the layback armchairs provided at the hospital. Not to mention the blankets which obviously needed replacing – too many cycles in an industrial washer with premium-strength disinfectants had turned the baby-blue waffle knit blankets to rough, ineffective tatters (the quality time spent sitting with nothing to look at but these linens allowed me to form a solid opinion about them).

Knowing it was a waste of time to attempt to salvage some assemblance of rest, I gave in to Ra's fury burning its way into the east-facing window. I pushed the offensive blue article to the floor and glanced at my watch. _6:15. _I reluctantly lifted myself from the chair and began the day by doing exactly as I had the previous five.

First, I brushed my teeth and cleansed my face. I changed my clothes after giving myself what Angela calls a 'whore's bath,' and applied makeup heavy-handedly over the dark circles and dry skin I'd acquired in the last week. I then prepared a small pink basin of warm water and a washcloth and carried it back to the main room in the hospital suite.

In my years as Booth's partner, I've always admired the way that he presents himself. He is fastidious in his appearance, making sure that he looks his best at all times. In his opinion, first impressions are 'key,' therefore he must convince suspects, jurors, and families that he knows what he is doing before he even opens his mouth. Seems like a good enough reason to keep such a handsome face well-kept, after all.

I assumed that this attention to his appearance would carry on despite the fact that he had not yet emerged from his medically-induced coma after his brain surgery as quickly as was initially predicted. The anesthesiologist indicated that it could take up to a day for Booth to wake. As Booth's medical proxy (a decision for which I am qualified but highly uncomfortable with), I advised the surgeons before the procedure began that Booth's consciousness is, in Booth's words, 'tricky.' He is trained to awaken at the slightest movement and disruption from being a sniper, however, he is highly responsive to even small amounts of anesthetics and narcotics. A medical anomaly.

Whether this warning was heeded or not, Booth would be disappointed if he woke up and smelled as if he had just completed the Iron Man competition after consuming pounds of garlic and asparagus (a smell which he has mused about, but I would never like to partake in). Given the newest revelation in our partnership, I assumed the role of ensuring his cleanliness was taken care of. Nurses came in often to clean up waste and his catheter, but I found it pleasant to perform the more personal duties for Booth.

I washed his face and neck, careful not to wet the bandages holding the loose portion of his frontal bone in place. I then used a small and somewhat unproductive razor to shave him. Although I rather enjoyed the look of scruff on his face, it made him look taken care of to be clean-shaven. I spread some aftershave on and selfishly did as I had in the days before, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek, careful to brush his with my own and inhaling his scent. These selfish little breaths were not as satisfying as when we'd be out in the field, however. Occasionally, a gust of wind or the warm air in the government-issued vehicle he drove would waft towards me and I felt as if I was stealing something. Taking a breath of his scent without him knowing. On this day too, it was stealing, only the rush of his scent was not sufficient as I had no risk of being caught.

I stood back and admired him. He was so handsome, and if what he'd said in the operating room was true and not an impulsive effect of the tumor pressing onto his frontal lobe, then it was acceptable for me to admire – and desire – him in the way that I was.

_"Temperance?"_

_I had been gazing at our hands, still intertwined, still unbelieving of what was about to happen. His utterance of my first name, a name that was rarely used and even more rarely by my partner, took me by surprise. _

_"Booth," I responded, unsure of where he could be going with this. I held back tears as I sensed that this was another serious discussion meant for a different moment._

_"Are you going to interrupt the guy with the brain tumor, or are you going to listen?" I laughed. He had that effect. To turn a serious moment such as this into something light-hearted. It was a gift. I nodded him on, allowing him to continue._

_"I need you to know that since the moment I saw you, I knew you were something different, something special. Even after you hated me after our first case, I knew that I had to get you back. So I held you at that airport and somehow forced you to come with me – until you forced me to take you out in the field. There were some days that I thought you were a lost case, that there was no way in hell that I could put up with your arrogance and demeanor. I'm glad I waited. I'm glad I took the time to find out that that arrogance was founded – and in all honesty was your way of showing confidence." He did not waver. It was if he had this speech memorized. Although in all honesty, knowing Booth, he didn't memorize it. His best spoken lectures were always off the cuff and unplanned. He was an intelligent and eloquent man. It just took the right circumstances to see it._

_He continued, now causing me to flush at his complimentary words."You've made me better. Not just professionally, but personally. You've encouraged me to strive to be better, faster, stronger, and more determined every day that we go out. You remind me that the object of our professions is not to right some cosmic balance sheet I've come up with, but to make our little corner of the world a safer place."_

_I remembered speaking with him about this balance sheet. He'd given himself this sort of ultimatum to avenge as many lives as he'd taken. He was a good man following orders and in the depths of his… heart, for lack of a better term, he knew that too. However the pain was too great and this was his way of coping with it, something he said I would never fully understand unless I took as many lives as he had. I'd only been responsible for the death of a few criminals, but the weight of those deaths alone made me wonder how he dealt with his._

_"You've saved my life, Bones. Literally and figuratively. I'd probably be homeless and gambling my life away by now if it weren't for you. So here I am, laying here as weak and exposed as I can be. I need you to know that I love you. I love you with every one of the 206 bones in my body."_

_I smiled at the reference to his bones and felt tears begin to streak down my cheeks. It hadn't been the first time I'd become emotional that day, but it was the first I'd done so in front of Booth. I didn't want him to see my weakness, my pain at seeing him vulnerable like this. _

_He must have sensed this, reaching the arm unencumbered by IVs and monitors to my face and wiped the tears as they fell to my jaw line."I need you to know that you are loved."_

_That subtle distinction between the fact that he loved me and that he wanted me to know I was loved were not lost on me. Even in the moments before his own potentially life-threatening surgery, he wanted me to be taken care of. He wanted to offer me comfort. _

I placed a light kiss on his forehead, hoping that it _was _all Booth speaking. I lingered a little as I contemplated that day before taking leave to the cafeteria to try and find something to ease my sudden gastrointestinal discomfort.

Later that day, friends came and went. Angela and Cam stopped by with a nice salad for me at lunchtime, and my dad came in and talked about baseball as if Booth and I were both listening. Even Jared stopped in to check on his older brother. I'd kept in touch with Rebecca, updating her to talk with Parker, however, Booth made it infinitely clear before his surgery that he did not desire for his son to see him in any sort of incapacitated state. I supposed this was because of his pride, but Sweets suggested that Booth wanted to protect Parker from the harsh realities of human mortality that Booth dealt with daily. I accepted this premise, knowing there were a lot of things that Booth refused to talk about with Parker until he had 'hair under his arms.'

Once friends and family left and I felt sure that we could be alone once more, I retrieved my laptop from my briefcase and opened the document containing the little progress I'd managed on my next book. Ever since Booth and I came back from London, my publisher had been pressuring me to write another book, one which they have slated to be marketed heavily in both the United States and United Kingdom. I found this pressure to be irritatingly flattering, so I had begun work on the first chapter in recent months.

Part of my process in writing is to write within the flow of my consciousness and leave the editing for later. This editing typically manifests itself in the form of reading the story aloud to ensure there are no errors in my grammar and tenses. Since I was the only conscious person within earshot (aside from the occasional nurse that would hover outside the door long enough to hear a paragraph or two), I saw no harm in reading the story aloud in front of Booth. In fact, I'd imagined his reactions to the words in my mind (something I would never admit for fear of being accused of hearing voices like Booth).

In these daydreams, most of the time he'd nod along, offering his advice on the character Andy Lister. I would never tell anyone – especially Booth – but the character was most certainly modeled after him. After all, the best way to write the truth was to speak from experience. I imagined he'd become quiet and flushed as I read what little I had to contribute to Kathy and Andy's sexual encounters in the story. All of this was imagined, however, as Booth sat stagnant, mouth slightly agape, unresponsive to my words.

But this day as I read, I noticed something different. Booth's breathing became deeper. Slight movement in his fingertips caused me to stop mid-sentence and nearly throw my laptop across the room. I stood at his bedside, allowing the tips of my fingers to still his, hoping the touch would further his movement and possibly awaken him.

His eyes shuttered lethargically as he smacked his lips before he licked them. He then mumbled something unintelligible, causing me to take his hand in one of mine, and grab the call button with the other. I anxiously pressed the button, summoning the nurses to his room. He began looking around the room, appearing perplexed at his surroundings. His nurse, whose name I still cannot recall, smiled as she entered the room and began taking his vitals.

Booth stopped his movement and finally settled his eyes on me. His look was a mixture of what I interpreted to be pain and confusion. He huffed a few times before finally being able to form a coherent sentence.

"Where… are we?" I backed away from the bed slightly, doing an abhorrent job of hiding my dissatisfaction with the fact that he seemed to have amnesia. I held firm to his hand however, knowing that this length of comatose state was statistically impossible to wake from without the threat of amnesia. The nurse padded slowly out of the room, most likely trying to avoid a heartbreaking scene she'd seen before.

Calmly, I attempted to answer his question without immediately alarming him. "We are at the hospital. Do you remember who you are?" I hesitated for a moment, debating on whether or not to ask my next selfish question. "Do you remember who I am?"

In a moment of what I can only describe as pure Booth, he smiled crookedly and responded, "Yeah, I'm Scully and you're Mulder." I laughed in relief and he chuckled lightly, wincing at the pain wracking his skull. Before our second case, Booth had agreed to allow me into the field. Because he had been so back-and-forth in the past with my hiring and firing and subsequent re-hiring, I did not really believe him.

"_What, you want to spit in my hand? We're Scully and Mulder."_

Since that case, we'd had many other cases together working in the field. He'd even forced me to watch episodes of _The X-Files _featuring the characters Scully and Mulder. While I had to be truthful and make it known that I did not believe in the extraterrestrial, I did admit to Booth on several occasions that I enjoyed the banter exchanged between the fictional partners.

My smile faded slightly as I accepted that I didn't get the full answer from Booth that I wanted. I asked again, "But what are our real names?"

He shook his head slightly and hoarsely gave in to my request. "I am Special Agent Seeley Joseph Booth. You are Doctor Temperance Brennan." His use of my first name, although I'd heard it before as he'd introduced me in the course of countless cases, gave me a slight chill. I recalled his use of my name a few days prior in a slightly less professional setting. I couldn't help but wonder, again selfishly, whether or not he remembered that too.

"Do you remember what happened just before the surgery? What we talked about?" I bit my lip in nervous anticipation. I was very sure I knew the answer, but hoped that this was going to be one of the rare times in my life I would be proved incorrect.

His eyes narrowed. "I don't remember coming here. The last thing I remember is having dinner with Gordon-Gordon and taking Sweets home afterwards." He must have seen my eyes grow wider only momentarily, because his next question implied the gap in time.

"How long ago was that?" He would not abandon his hold on my eyes until I looked down at my own feet.

"It was approximately a month or so ago…" I loosened my grip on his hand, "…but I… I can confirm that with Sweets if you need me…"

His hand grasped mine firmly, showing no intention of allowing me to slip away from him. I wanted to slink into the shadows of the dimly lit room. I didn't want to accept what was happening before me. Only hours earlier, I'd mused about the possibilities of our new relationship. Foolishly, I may add, considering my knowledge of the human nervous system and statistics about post-traumatic amnesia.

"Bones," he tried, squeezing my hand again. "what did I say that has you so concerned?" he spoke slowly, regaining his awareness and consciousness bit by bit.

"It was nothing," I lied. It wasn't that I didn't want to tell him exactly what transpired in the OR, I was just unsure of how to tell him. Or unsure if he would even want to know at all. Perhaps it was in fact the tumor pressing on his brain causing him to be impulsive in what he conceived to be his final moments. I pushed this thought deep into my brain, wanting to avoid the thought of him dying again.

While he'd forgotten some things, he'd retained others. He read my facial expressions (which were admittedly not as well-contained as I thought) and pressed his inquiry further. "Don't beat around the bush, Bones. What happened?"

He finally relinquished control of my hand, allowing me to push my chair closer to his bedside. I sat softly on the edge of the seat and began relaying the story from the point at which he'd last remembered. Occasionally he'd drift off in thought and ask a question pertaining to a case or minute details of what he'd eaten on certain days or what clothing he'd worn. However, there were parts of the story I didn't realize I was not prepared to tell; how we'd solved the murder of his colleague's sister, how I'd decided I wanted to have a child and requested his sperm, and how he'd told me he loved me. He was caught in the trivial details, and I was struggling to just admit the things he really wanted to know – but wasn't aware he did.

Somewhere after explaining the case involving a college student killed and loaded into a school mascot, Booth grew tired and asked if we could stop for the night. I glanced at my watch for what seemed like the thousandth time that day. _3:27. _I agreed that this would be a good stopping point and that we could continue the conversation in the morning. Truthfully, I wasn't sure I wanted to relay everything that happened to him. Knowing, however, that Angela, Hodgins, and the rest of our friends and family would fill in the details I'd left out, it had to be me. Besides, aside from the surgeons and nurses in the operating room when Booth made his speech about loving me, I was the only one that witnessed this admission of love.

As Booth drifted off to sleep with the help of some mild pain medication, I thought about whether he'd believe me or not. He could see right through a lie. I, of all people, was most susceptible to this innate skill of his. Over the years it seemed he'd studied me, learned my habits and my 'tells' as he put it in his gambling terms. He could tell if I was lying almost immediately, sometimes before I even had the chance to do so verbally. I didn't lie often, and when I did it was mostly to avoid subjects that I didn't intend upon discussing with him. The only times he did not call me out for this were when we met with Sweets. Sweets, too, had an uncanny ability to decipher a lie from the truth, but he didn't know me as well as Booth, and often would believe me simply because he had a lack of information supporting the contrary.

On days like this, we would leave our sessions with Sweets quietly or sometimes jumping right into the case as we walked to his office or vehicle. Often, as soon as Booth felt we were in a safe place where we would be guaranteed to be the only two privy to the conversation at hand, he would ask me about what I'd avoided saying.

On one occasion of this type in which Sweets asked us both to tell one thing that came to our minds daily that stemmed from our childhoods, I'd casually mentioned that I checked the stove every day, somewhat irrationally, because it was what my mother did every day before she left for work.

"_And this was comforting to you?" Sweets asked, biting at the metaphorical bait I'd dangled in the form of my mother's memory. _

"_Yes," I lied. "It gives me something to connect to her and only her." I was quickly running out of fallacy, as my rational brain fought with the mostly made-up story._

"_Interesting," Sweets commented, eliciting a groan and eye roll from Booth. Thankfully, he picked up on this quickly and moved on to what he thought would prove to be a more fascinating story. "Agent Booth, how about you? Do you have any memories about your parents that are brought forth on a regular basis?" Booth rolled his eyes again and flipped the chip in his hand between his fingers a few times before even acknowledging that a response was expected from Sweets._

"_I tell ya what, Sweets, I can't really think of any." He stared right at Sweets, most likely attempting to intimidate the poor young doctor as he had so many times before. After a few pregnant moments of silence, I offered a solution I assumed all would be satisfied with. It just so happened that this solution was another lie._

"_What about the pie, Booth?" His head and eyes snapped towards me immediately, silently questioning my intentions. I continued, hoping he'd play along so that we could finish this session before any more divulging had to take place. _

"_Remember you told me, Booth? About your mother? How she made excellent pies for special occasions?" His bottom lip raised towards his nose and he nodded, first at me, then morphing into a one-sided smile as he turned to Sweets. _

"_Booth has told me about the pies his mother made. She usually made them just for neighbors with sick family, or for their co-workers' birthdays or company parties, but occasionally on special days, she'd have one ready when you came home from school and you'd eat it for a snack?" _

_Booth laughed a little and added, "That blueberry was my favorite. Mom knew that. Jared liked strawberry-rhubarb more, but mom had a favorite, too." Booth looked back at me and smiled wider. "I can't believe you remembered that, Bones. You don't even like pie," he scoffed._

_Sweets looked between the two of us, smiling in his uniquely juvenile way. "And you shared this openly with Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth, or did she ask you?"_

_Booth's smile broke as he grew tired of the questioning. "I probably offered it up, Sweets. Didn't seem like such an important detail at the time, but maybe it meant something to Bones." His suggestion gave Sweets something to think about as Booth retrieved his phone from his pocket. Glancing at the outer screen, be began to stand. "Well, Sweets, it's pretty upsetting to me that we've made all this _grand _progress, but I am afraid that duty calls for the bone lady and I here." He gestured to me with his hand. I took it and allowed him to help me stand from my seat. _

_As Booth reached for my coat on the rack, Sweets protested. "Aren't you two interested in why this is probably the reason that Agent Booth orders pie almost everywhere he goes…"_

_Booth interrupted, "Whoa there, Sweets. I don't just eat any pie. You make me sound like a pie whore!" He laughed as he held the collar of my jacket, allowing me to slip my arms in to the long trench. _

"_The reason Booth eats so much pie is probably because he enjoys the taste of it, Doctor Sweets." I tied the belt to my coat as Booth ushered me out the door. Booth said a quick goodbye and closed the door behind him, shutting in the dissent of the young psychologist as we headed towards the elevator. _

_As we sped down the road towards our next destination, Booth decided to approach the subject of that morning's session with Sweets. "Thanks for that, Bones." He looked over at me and smiled, obviously delighted. "Ya know, for coming up with something for Sweets to shrinkolate on instead of making me come up with something myself. Quick thinking. I liked it." He wiggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner, causing me to laugh a bit. _

"_It was no problem, Booth, although I do feel a little bit guilty having lied so much to Sweets. He seems to have good intentions… for the most part." I laughed again, thinking about all the times he'd probed us for more information – more personal information at that, attempting to open old wounds that neither Booth nor I were willing to venture. _

"_Yeah, uh," he hesitated, looking to me again briefly before returning his eyes to the road, "you may have fooled the good doctor in there, but I'm wondering just how far off the reservation you had to go to tell that little lie of yours."_

_The car was silent for a few moments as I considered a course of action. Typically, Booth was pretty good about allowing me to simply say that I didn't want to talk about it. He'd turn up the music and drop the subject immediately. Alternately, he had been good about listening without commentary lately when I had decided to divulge memories or especially difficult stories. That day, I felt that I could trust him with this truth. _

"_In my last foster home, I would often be responsible for making sure that the younger children of the house were fed before we left for school. Usually this meant pouring cereal into bowls and making sure that before we left, all the dishes were in the sink. One day, I decided I would make a more complicated breakfast to treat my foster siblings." I paused. He nodded me on to continue._

"_I made toast, bacon, and eggs that were all going to go bad soon if they were not used. When we left that morning, I made sure all of the plates, utensils, and cooking dishes were placed in the sink in hot water so that I could wash them when I got home from school that afternoon. _

"_That afternoon when my siblings and I got home from school, only my foster mother was home from work, which was highly unusual. She stood in the kitchen, looking angry, and I assumed it was either because I had used food she was planning on using that evening for dinner, or that I had left an unacceptable amount of dishes sitting in the sink." I paused again, this time not to gauge whether Booth was still listening or not, because I knew he was, but because I knew the next part of the story was something I hadn't said to anyone out loud in a very long time._

_I continued; my voice unsteady for only a moment before evening out again. "She wasn't angry about the food or the dishes. She was irate because a friend of hers had stopped by the house that day to drop off some magazines she'd borrowed and noticed that the stove in the kitchen was still on. Her friend turned the stove off and called my foster mother at work when she got home. She told her about the stove, and she knew exactly who left it on._

"_She called me all sorts of names, which was not that upsetting for me. I was used to being called names in school, so I had built up a sort of immunity to it. When my foster mother saw that I wasn't upset with my mistake, despite apologizing, she grabbed me by the neck and swung me around so that my head hovered over the eye of the stove." My voice cracked as the last word left my mouth. Booth turned to me, his eyes full of concern and quite possibly grief. I cleared my throat and calmly continued my story, now at a point of no return._

"_She had turned the eye back on. As she held me over it, I could smell my hair burning on the coil. I begged that she forgive me and punish me however she wanted. I remember, she just grinned evilly at me and told me that was exactly what she was going to do. Then she proceeded to hold my head and the back of my neck against the eye until I finally managed to kick her hard enough to release me." _

_I looked out my window now, not sure of what I had just done. "That's why I check the stove every time I leave my apartment. Old habit, I suppose. Irrational considering I don't even cook that often." My voice lowered as I finished the statement. _

_Booth parked the car. I assumed we were at the house of the next suspect on our list, but I would not lift my eyes away from the car door long enough to see where we were. It was then that Booth reached his hand out to me and touched my arm with the tips of his fingers. I turned to him again and caught his gaze as he slowly moved his hand up towards my shoulder and then closer to my neck. His fingertips skimmed the surface of my neck over my carotid artery and then back to the nape of my neck, where his fingers sought something. When he found what he was looking for, his eyes met mine once more. His calloused fingers grazed the raised curves of the scars on my neck. Void of any follicle growth, they were easy to trace without looking. _

_His eyes drew mine back to his, searching for something missing. Perhaps he expected tears or a deep, ragged breath to try and hide my true emotion. Instead, the only visceral reaction was a shudder as the hairs on my neck rose in response to his warm touch. _

_As quickly as he'd come, he removed his hand and wasted no time in opening his door and exiting the vehicle. I sat still for another moment, still buckled in the seat, staring in his direction, wondering what the hell just happened._

There were few days like this, but this one often came to the forefront of my mind. Surely as I filled Booth in on the rest of the gaps of his amnesia and its causative comatose state, he would know that I was leaving things out. He would ask me. He would want to know the truth. And I would have to be the one to give it to him.

But that odd day after our partners' therapy session reminded me of something else, too. There had to be some part of Booth that cared for me deeply on that day. I knew then that there was something different going on because I hadn't pulled away from his touch, rather, I'd embraced it and allowed it to happen. Perhaps Booth loved me on that day too. Maybe Booth had loved me far longer than the day he told me in the operating room.

Regardless of his feelings on the matter, I knew the next day would prove to be a difficult one. He would be tired, most likely in intense pain, and he'd want to know the rest of the details. Those details which also included something he'd either forgotten or ignored asking about. His diagnosis. At this point, he only knew that he was having hallucinations and was now in the hospital in pain. He did not know about the tumor, and worse yet, he had no idea about his prognosis.

And that was something I was absolutely positive I was not ready to tell him.

* * *

**AN: So. There's that. What exactly will this prognosis be? Are you nervous? Do you hate me yet? Are you ready for some more Boothy goodness?**

**Let me know. How, you say? **

**That little box down there. C'mon, it'll only take you a second (and you might even hear from me directly)! Happy Reviewing!**

**-broil**


	3. Beating My Heart

_**Sinking Like Stones, Chapter 3, Beating My Heart**_

_**-broilthesuspect-**_

**_Rating: T_**

**Summary: Follow-up of sorts to my OS "Good Enough For Me" (you're welcome to leave now and read that first, it's fairly short). Takes place as Booth wakes up from his brain surgery at the end of S4. My take on what would happen if the neurosurgeons were not able to remove all of the tumor in Booth's brain. AU, Brennan's POV.**

_**Advisory: I do not own the show Bones or the characters involved in this story. I just enjoy filling in gaps and re-writing my version of the show we know and love. This story will not have fluffy bunnies running rampant, however, I am inclined to say that if you read it, you will be touched in some way by it. Hell, you might even enjoy it.**_

* * *

_This whole world will take me down  
Without you standing by my side, my side  
You're holding onto me  
You're making everything inside  
Come alive  
And then I open my eyes  
And I know you're beating my heart_

"_Beating My Heart," Jon McLaughlin_

* * *

"Bones, what are you doing?"

I nearly threw the basin of water in my hands across the floor. Looking down at the sloshing liquid, I soon blushed. "Oh, nothing… I…" I struggled for words as I realized I'd forgotten the new circumstances which surrounded my being in the room.

I am convinced that the lack of sleep and stress of the week before caused me to have a lapse like that. I'd started the day like I had the last few, getting myself showered and dressed and then cleaning Booth up for the day since he was not capable of doing so himself.

But Booth was awake. I stopped for a moment and smiled as I turned back towards the bathroom. _Booth is awake. _I felt silly for getting the water, and even sillier for having been caught by Booth as he woke up that morning.

"You what?" he called into the bathroom. He cleared his throat, the effects of sleep still lingering. I poured the water into the sink and placed the washcloth neatly on the edge of it. My brain raced in what seemed like countless directions attempting to find an answer. But just as I felt that I could construct some fallacy about cleaning my saliva off the chair I'd been sleeping in, he compounded the issue with another question.

"And… did you spend the night?" My head defied my wishes and immediately snapped to look at him. His gaze was fixed on a canvas tote bearing an embroidered _"Temperance,"_ a gift from an undergraduate professor I received upon mine. When he turned and looked at me, I knew I was in over my head. My ability to lie to Booth was unreliable at best, but I stood a far lesser chance when he was looking directly at me. I crushed under the pressure.

"I… well… while you were comatose," the last word stung. It was something I neither wanted to talk nor think about from this point on, yet knew was going to become part of common conversation now. I continued, "I assumed you would want to remain hygienic. You always are so well-put together and clean and I just felt…" my words were screeching together now, like an automobile accident that I had no hope of controlling. "…I felt like you would want to still feel like the same person when you woke up and… I may have overstepped but…"

"Bones." He sort of barked it. "Bones, relax." He extended his palm out in a 'stop' motion, his face disbelieving and wrinkled. "Slow down. So what you're saying here is that you were making sure I was clean?" I nodded quickly, still a little shocked at the brusque address. "Uh, not to be ungrateful or anything, but what exactly…"

My neurotransmitters apparently needed something a bit more suggestive to think about in order to begin functioning normally again. "No! No no no! Your face… I washed your face and your neck and brushed your teeth every day. The nurse aides came in during the day and ensured that all of your…" I paused, remembering that the last time I'd referenced his genitalia by the clinical names, he'd called me down for it. "…personal areas were cleansed." His face morphed into one of confusion and held very static for a moment before he burst into laughter.

I wasn't quite sure of the cause of his laughter. There isn't much that is humorous about being in a post-traumatic coma and having to fully rely on other human beings to take care of your basic activities of daily life. At least I didn't see anything humorous about it. But then again, there were a lot of things I did not find funny that Booth did.

"Bones," he said, still chuckling through his words, "that was so sweet of you! What did I do to deserve a partner like you?"

And there it was. Unknowingly, he was killing me. Booth has used this metaphor several times to describe his feeling upon learning I do not care for things that he does, such as the band Led Zeppelin or cooked fruit pies. Of course, Booth has always meant it in a joking way, that it hurts him that I would 'put down' things that he loved so dearly. But I now felt what he meant by this phrase. I was hurt by it. He didn't remember what happened before he was given anesthetics in the operating room. He didn't remember admitting that he loved me. He didn't remember telling me that he knew I was something different upon first meeting me. He remembered me as the partner.

_Just _a partner.

My internal worry must have been less well-hidden than I thought. "I didn't mean to offend you, Bones, really. It was a really nice thing to do. I appreciate it. It's just… not really your style I guess. But I appreciate it nonetheless."

I remained quiet, nodding only slightly as a 'you're welcome." I made no attempt to hide my anxiety at that point about the conversation that was coming next. I knew it had to happen. I just didn't want to have to be the one to inform Booth of not one, but two important events that he lost while unconscious.

"Bones," he forced, "just tell me whatever it is you need to tell me and get this over with. Not to be insensitive, but whatever's bothering you will be a whole hell of a lot easier to deal with if you just tell me and let me help you think it out, instead of you just sitting there and stewing in it." One of his eyebrows was cocked towards his hairline, and I imagined had he been standing up, he would have been tapping his foot in impatience.

I looked up at him as he smiled at me, encouraging me to speak. That irritatingly irresistible grin worked. "Well," I said, "the first item I must inform you of is good, I think. That is, if you think it's good. The second is bad, which I am positive about." I paused a moment to think. "While I don't believe in absolutes, I am certain that the second is _absolutely _bad. I'm not sure what I want to tell you first."

He snorted a bit and responded, "Alright, well let's try and play a little game, okay Bones? In this game, you ask me if I would like the good or the bad news first. Sometimes that makes it easier on the person getting the news because they can pick what order they hear it in. The person giving the news feels better too because they are not in as much control of telling the person."

I was certain that a decrease in control would in no way make me feel better about the conversation. "That is irrational, Booth. Within seconds of telling you the good or the bad news, I will have to tell you the remaining option. The two negate each other, and you are left with both a bad and good piece of news. How is this supposed to be beneficial?"

Booth closed his eyes and shook his head, drawing his hand down his face. He rubbed the stubble of his jaw as he responded, "It's just a game, Bones, and whether it's rational or not in your genius brain or not, I think it will help me. So are you going to play along or not, you party pooper?"

I ignored Booth's reference to feces and gave in. "Would you like the good news or the bad news first?" He thought about it, and I imagined scales being weighed in his mind. How would he even make a decision like this without knowing the options? Granted, knowing the options would render the entire process unnecessary.

"I guess I'll take the bad news first," he answered with a slight shrug. "That way we can deal with your ambiguous maybe-good-news-maybe-bad-news last." Booth pressed his palms into the mattress, lifting his torso up in the bed, wincing a bit as he did.

Once he was settled and I was seated uncomfortably on the very literal edge of my seat, I began. "Well, Booth…" I trailed off. How was I supposed to present the news? "Well, you know about the brain tumor," I started again.

He nodded. "I had surgery to have it removed. The doctors had to tell me as much." His face was stern and unwavering. It was as if he was preparing for what was to come.

I nodded in response. _Damn. _Why was this so difficult? Over the years of our partnership, I'd had no trouble getting right to the point with Booth. On several occasions, he'd even mentioned that he admired the quality in me. But now I sat here like a bumbling idiot, unable to bring forth the words that I so desperately needed to release for my own sanity and his.

I looked down at my hands. My head shook from side to side. I'd given him harsh truth before, and this was no exception. If I truly believed him to be the man he was before his surgery, surely I could trust that he would still admire my honesty in this moment?

"They were unable to remove it all." The words burst out of my mouth, like the way you would squeeze a near condiment bottle so tightly that it sputters and releases all its air. I felt the same, the words having left my mouth, I felt a sense of relief, yet all of the air had been knocked out of my lungs suddenly.

I lowered my voice significantly and added, "It's cancer. And it's metastasized." There. That was it. I'd said it. I felt no better about it than before I'd told him. I felt awful, like I'd just ruined his life. Why was I here? Why hadn't I chosen to let the doctors tell him? Why didn't _Booth _allow the doctors to tell him? Why wasn't he saying anything? Was _I _supposed to say something to him? What would be comforting in this situation?

Questions raced through my mind. My legs became restless, bouncing up and down against the plasticized seat of my chair, my calves _swish swish swish_ing against the front cushion. I rose from the seat and paced to the door. I wasn't going to leave. I just couldn't sit still. Why was this happening?

I turned back towards the bed to take a look at Booth. His head was leaned back, his eyes were closed. His jaw was tense and tight, and his breaths were slow but deep. His hands lay flat atop the blanket over his thighs, veins protruding wildly as his heart rate rose. The monitor beeped in agreement with my assessment.

I allowed myself to take in the sight of him for another few moments, just watching as he breathed. In, out.

In, out.

In, out.

In the literary world, there is an oft-utilized phrase that I'd never understood. _Deafening silence. _While I understood that authors using this term never really meant that the silence would cause one to go Deaf, I didn't ever believe it applied to the places I'd seen it. It had been used as a clever idiom, reserved for stories in which the main character makes a terrible speech in front of thousands, a potential candidate failed to impress future employers, or a lover turned down by the one they held most dear. In these circumstances, the character that experienced this 'deafening silence' had been rejected for what they had to offer. They had been met with nothing but quiet.

But here, I felt that I finally understood this term. Unlike the movies, I wasn't offering something of myself. I was presenting a fact. _Booth has cancer. It is a brain tumor. A team of neurosurgeons attempted to remove it, but they were unsuccessful. The cancer is spreading. _Of course, I hadn't said all of these things as eloquently aloud as I had in my mind, but I was simply stating facts. And unlike the rest of our partnership, Booth was not reacting whatsoever. As I stood staring at Booth breathing in, out, I suddenly came to grips with this resounding nothingness.

My thoughts swirled as I stood mere feet from the edge of his bed, a statue immovable. _Perhaps he did not understand me and doesn't want to admit he is confused. Maybe he thought I said something else. He could even be ignoring me. _I willed his eyes to open and just acknowledge that I'd spoken. Something to break the stillness of the room.

I backed slowly into the wall facing Booth's bed. I slowly slunk down its surface, eventually settling myself on the floor. With my knees bent, I folded my arms across my chest and held my ribcage. I breathed deeply to calm myself. Within a few minutes of thoughtful meditation, I'd managed to lower my pulse and even my breathing.

The world surrounding me became small. Not literally, as the universe is quite large, and of course there is the law of conservation of mass… regardless. It felt as if the world had shrunken and it only contained Booth and me sitting there in that little room.

I had this feeling most often in my childhood when I was playing hide-and-seek with my parents or Russ. I would hide somewhere dark and small such as under my bed or in the back of a closet. While my object permanence was fully developed by this time, I would close my eyes and imagine myself becoming smaller and smaller until no one could see me. In my mind, the place I was hiding would shrink with me, becoming the size of a shoebox, a video cassette. As a child this helped me feel well-hidden.

As an adolescent, I remember feeling this way once. When my foster parents locked me in the trunk of their car after I clumsily broke a dish, I shrunk myself. I imagined becoming so small that I disappeared. Just like my parents. Just like Russ. But I didn't disappear.

Sitting there with my back against the wall and my head between my knees, I shrunk myself. I imagined myself as one of those tiny plastic Polly Pocket toys I'd seen a child I babysat play with once. I was no larger than the size of a thumbnail. The room was a matchbox. I sat as still as I could and focused on breathing in and out. I had nearly forgotten there was someone else in the room until Booth broke the silence and the world grew again.

"So, uh, Bones?" his voice was hesitant. I slowly raised my head to look at him. His eyes were glassy. Pushed down close to his eyes, his brow was knit – it clashed with the tight smile that took up the lower half of his expression. He looked angry – but happy? I couldn't determine what he was feeling. "How 'bout you give me that good news now, huh?"

I nodded and stood slowly, brushing invisible wrinkles out of my jeans as I straightened. I approached the bed but remained what I perceived to be a safe distance regardless of Booth's reaction to the piece of information I needed to share. When I'd settled where I assumed would be appropriate, I looked back up to see a giant grin on Booth's face. His brow and mouth now matched in (potentially feigned) joy.

"Well," I began, my face flushing. The tips of my ears began to burn and I can only imagine how red my chest became. "I suppose I didn't get to finish telling you what all you missed while you were comatose." Booth cringed at the word. I gave him a slightly disapproving look, as I neither want to have to use the word in context to him, but have no useful euphemisms for the phrase to put him at ease. He released a sigh and nodded me on.

"Once we were in the operating room," my face could have been covered in flames and I wouldn't be surprised. "You said you had to tell me something." I considered taking off my jacket, although I reconsidered as I knew that my sudden change in body temperature was most likely due to the stress of the moment. It would pass soon enough. At least I could hope it would.

"Spit it out, Bones. It's good news, remember? You ripped the last one off like a Band-Aid…" he trailed off, speaking the last sentence lowly. I did not understand the reference, but gauged that it was not the right time to ask for an explanation.

I drew closer to him until my thighs were pressed up against the side of the bed, the rail at his side separating us. "Booth, you told me you loved me." Unintentionally, I uttered the phrase with a tone of disbelief. Perhaps it's that I didn't believe it myself. When I heard it at first, I was surprised by it, and it appeared to surprise Booth as well.

"But that's not all of it," I continued. "You said you loved me. You wanted me to know I was loved." His face grew increasingly confused. His neck shifted away from me. I stepped back slightly and continued, desperate for him to hear what I was saying and understand it. "You told me not to interrupt the guy with the brain tumor. That you knew from the moment we met…" my vision doubled as my eyes filled with tears. My words jumbled as I watched Booth's face wrinkle with bewilderment. "…that… that you knew we were meant to be together. You… you said I was arrogant but I should be because I wasn't lying… and you said I've saved your life. You kissed me. For a long time. And… you said you loved me, Booth… you loved me."

He shook his head and that was all I had to see. Tears streamed down my face and I became overcome with sobbing. Why was this happening? Why did I have to tell him this? These were facts. I was good at delivering facts. But with no one to confirm that I was right, I was left open, vulnerable, to this man who did not understand or believe what I was saying?

I held my hands to my face to hide my shame. I was standing there crying about something that I should have known was too good to be true. My own fault. I heard the sheets of the bed rustle, but I couldn't be bothered to look. I could feel the tears leaving trails on my cheeks, most likely dragging my mascara along with it. Suddenly I felt a touch on my arm.

"Bones." His fingers stroked my forearm lightly, coaxing it away from my face. I took sharp intakes of breath between sobs as he wrapped his large hand around my wrist and brought my arm down from my face. "C'mere," he said, patting the bed beside him. He'd thrown his legs over the side and was facing me with his whole body. I blinked several times and sniffed, hoping this ridiculous crying would stop. I sat next to him as he wished, all the while, he maintained a hold on my hand. "What's wrong?"

I quickly took in two more breaths and spoke again. "You… you don't believe me, do you?" The words initiated more weak sobs I could not control. Booth's free hand reached around my back and squeezed my shoulder.

"Now why would I do that?" There was a playful tone to his voice. I looked up and sniffed, irritated at his arrogance. The irritation was short-lived as I saw his smile and he continued. "Why would I not believe you, Bones? I do love you." He squeezed my shoulder and hand simultaneously. I could feel the warmth of his chest pressing against my shoulder, overruling my flush from earlier.

"If you were afraid in any way that I would not feel the same as I did then, let me clear that up. Bones, I love you. I am, of course, surprised that I told you, but in the same way I was surprised that I was talking to a cartoon baby. I don't remember it. But _I believe you." _ He tenderly placed a kiss on my temple and gave me a light squeeze.

He'd confirmed it? He did in fact love me… still. He had a brain tumor and he isn't getting any better but he loves me? The feeling was so confusing. Am I supposed to cry? Laugh? My mind was full. My… _heart _was full. I couldn't fathom what the feeling meant or why my body was reacting the way it was. It felt as if my brain had been 'put in neutral' and my 'heart in overdrive' as Booth had told me once. I finally recognized what he meant.

I turned to him, on the verge of more uncontrollable sobbing and sort of mouthed, 'can I?' I just needed to be with him for a moment, be close to him, know that he was there and breathing and loving me and remembering that he loved me. He nodded curtly and pulled me against his chest as he lay back on the bed with me.

He held me as I cried, with the grief of finding out that my best friend, my partner, my… _what is he now?_ had a late-stage cancer; the relief that he remembered me; and the joy that he loved me. He held me tightly, silently reassuring me of these things. I placed my hand on his chest and felt his heart beat. It was strong and steady and I knew he was alive.

And for once, I was not entirely opposed to the idea that the heart is the center of love.

* * *

**AN: Thanks to my pals **dharmamonkey **and** threesquares **for digging me out of my writer's block hole. They both are constantly willing to give me a kick in the ass or a virtual hug as needed... and yesterday, I needed both. **

**If you have a feeling of any sort about this chapter, type a few words into that box right down there and let me know! Thanks for reading!**

**(and if you're on twitter, join me on Monday for a livetweet of the TWO HOUR winter premiere of Bones!)**

**-broil**


	4. Cemetery

_**Sinking Like Stones, Chapter 4, Cemetery**_

_**-broilthesuspect-**_

**_Rating: T_**

**Summary: Follow-up of sorts to my OS "Good Enough For Me" (you're welcome to leave now and read that first, it's fairly short). Takes place as Booth wakes up from his brain surgery at the end of S4. My take on what would happen if the neurosurgeons were not able to remove all of the tumor in Booth's brain. AU, Brennan's POV.**

_**Advisory: I do not own the show Bones or the characters involved in this story. I just enjoy filling in gaps and re-writing my version of the show we know and love. This story will not have fluffy bunnies running rampant, however, I am inclined to say that if you read it, you will be touched in some way by it. Hell, you might even enjoy it.**_

* * *

_There's no one who imagines like you_  
_ so convinced there's somewhere that we go to_  
_ Not a first class trip to the abyss_  
_ Tell me, do you still feel this?_

_ As I drown in lakes of fire_  
_ I will call your name as I expire_  
_ It's the last thing that I'll do_  
_ I will tell them I'm with you_

_- "Cemetery," Say Anything_

* * *

"Dr. B?"

Startled, I slammed the screen of my laptop closed. I had been poking and probing my gaunt, shadowed features using the camera feature as a sort of improvised mirror – something I wasn't exactly keen on letting the world in on.

I turned to the doorway to see Jack's curly-locked head peeking into my office. His face, initially amused at catching me by surprise shifted into something different. Disappointment? Pity? As of late, I'd become a secret connoisseur of these looks.

"Uh, sorry I scared ya there, Dr. B, but I just wanted to let you know I found some interesting in those Viking remains you asked me to look at." The smile returned.

"Thank you, Dr. Hodgins, I will be there in a few minutes to look at it." I shuffled some papers on my desk as I spoke, I suppose in an effort to look busy. Perhaps even out of nervousness.

He chuckled a bit as he moved into my doorway. "Is it just me or is it strange not having a sense of urgency anymore? I used to sit in the Ookey Room overnight to find some sliver of evidence, some little particulate…" he trailed off and shrugged. "Things are just different."

I nodded and began shuffling my papers around again, occasionally hesitating on one and pretending to be interested in its content. Jack left at some point in this process, leaving only a hardly noticeable sigh hanging in the air between us. I went on about my day filing paperwork, signing off on my interns' discoveries, and determining the cause of death of the Viking waiting ever-so-patiently atop the light table on the platform.

Around six, Angela came into my office and sat on the couch, purse and jacket in hand. "So, where are we going for dinner tonight?" she asked, sounding slightly out of breath. "Ethiopian? Japanese? American?" She crossed her legs and leaned her head against the back cushion. "Honestly I don't care where we're going as long as it's either a buffet or family style portions. I'm starving."

Our weekly standing date was somewhat of a confusing event for me. Every Friday night, Angela and I would go out to eat or go to a bar somewhere and engage in what Angela referred to as 'girl talk.' More succinctly put, gossip. I enjoyed most of the outings purely for the reason that Angela was my friend and these days I rarely went out and socialized. Other nights, going out was a reminder of that fact. I had few friends and even fewer that were willing to allow me to talk candidly.

Today, I was channeling the latter. "I'm not really hungry, Ange. Why don't you go out with Cam and Clark?"

She must have sensed the hostility in my tone because she jumped on it as soon as my tongue had finished forming the syllables. "Bren, seriously?" _Incredulous. _"Are you still dragging on that little war of yours with them? I don't get it – "

"He took my job, Ange, it – "

"He did not take YOUR job, Brennan. He was hired by the Jeffersonian to supplement a role you were unable to fulfill! And Cam did nothing wrong. She's been overwhelmingly supportive in the transition, to say the least!" She was sitting on the edge of the couch now, arms crossed tightly across her chest.

I was livid. This very conversation had come up dozens of times, and each time Angela refused to accept my very sound reasoning. "I was NOT unable!" My voice rose as did I, now walking toward Angela. "They were unwilling to accommodate me in my needs!" Angela rolled her eyes and looked away from me as I continued to shout. "I needed to be at the crime scene to ensure that the evidence was properly handled. Without properly cataloguing and processing evidence and remains at the scene, I could miss important details that would mean the difference – "

"Yeah, yeah," she interrupted, "the difference between someone's guilt and innocence. We get it, Bren, you're brilliant. A genius even. But you're not the only one in this lab and not the only one in charge of finding out which wacko wacked who."

"Whom," I corrected.

"See?" Angela stood, now face-to-face with me. "You just _have _to do that, don't you? Correct people? Make them feel smaller than you? Well, I'm fucking tired of it, Brennan. I'm tired of your Queen-Of-The-World act. I've seen it before. I get that you've had a tough time. You scared three well-seasoned FBI agents away like little puppies running from a rolled-up newspaper within a span of two months. Then you became the ice queen when they told you they would no longer take you out in the field anymore. You refused to work on any case in which you were not present at the crime scene at the time that they extracted remains. You were never like that! A case was a case."

She saw my lips begin to form a rebuttal when she continued, "No, I'm not done, you can wait your turn." The tips of her fingers were mere inches from my face as she warned me. "I get it, okay, you lost Booth. He's the one that fought for you to go in the field. You trained him to have the squint-eye on the techs so that if you were unable to be there, he could recover evidence that you trusted. He was your best friend. I get that, Bren. What I don't get is why you think it's okay to be the master bitch to rule all bitches when you're here at work. Clark was hired to take over forensic s because the FBI threatened to sever ties with the Jeffersonian due to YOUR little hissy fits! No one likes a diva.

"We get that you're sad and lonely because you haven't processed it all yet. Here, let me help you." She leaned in close. "He's dead, okay? Booth is dead. He's not coming back. He's not going to be your partner ever again, and he sure as hell is not going to be your main squeeze. It's over. Done. Finished. Get. Over. It."

There was a knock on the door.

I shot up in bed.

Panting, I held my shaking frame up with my hands pressed firmly into the mattress behind me. My heart seemed to be trying to escape the confines of my ribcage as it pounded furiously. The door ahead of me creaked slowly. My right hand shot up to my face where my silk sleep mask was still positioned over my eyes. I pushed it to my forehead and squinted towards the bright light coming from the doorway. I could make out a silhouette in the doorway, but the offensive light didn't allow for a clear assessment of the visitor's features. Luckily I wasn't waiting long for my answer.

"Bones?"

I allowed my trembling left arm to collapse onto the bed and I leaned my head back into the headboard. I tried desperately to calm my breathing and heart rate as Booth approached the side of the bed.

He turned on the lamp on my bedside table with a resistant _click._ I squeezed my eyes closed, very much opposed to the amount of light boring its way into my retinae. He laughed under his breath for a moment as he kneeled by my bed.

I pried one eye open to look at him. "Why are you here, Booth? Did you leave AMA again?" I did not attempt to hide my many shades of disapproval.

He held my cell phone up and wiggled it in the air. "I found this on your kitchen table, which I assume means you did not get my calls." I propped myself up on my elbows somewhat unsteadily. I shook my head.

"Of course you didn't," he continued. "If you had, you'd know that six hours ago, I signed all those damn papers and was ready to be picked up from the hospital. After five of those hours passed, I decided I'd just as soon call a taxi rather than my girlfriend." I peeked through my one open eye to see a massive smile on Booth's face. There was no doubt that he took great pleasure in using the term. I thought it sounded rather juvenile when we'd discussed it before, but as I'd been unable to offer a substitute that was suitable for both of us, it remained.

His forehead was wrinkled, taking the Tegaderm plastered to the scar just behind his hairline along with it. "I bet you don't even know what time it is, do you?" he snickered. I shook my head, now feeling the effects of Booth's contagious smile creep across my own lips.

"It's 3pm, Bones. Why the hell are you even still in bed? Don't you get up at like 4:30?" He tilted his head in feigned confusion.

"Getting up at 4:30 would require being 'down' at 4:30, Booth. I didn't sleep very well, but I didn't imagine I would still be in bed this late." My other eye was coming open, and the two were equalizing.

"Yeah, seems like I scared you a bit when I came in. I tried getting a hold of you in every other way, but since you're un-American and don't have a home phone –"

I rolled my eyes. "Just because I do not have a home phone does not make me un-American, Booth. It makes no sense to have both when one number will suffice. Besides, it's one less number for the media – "

This time, Booth interrupted me. Instead of forming a rebuttal on his lips, he used them to silence mine. His mouth was warm and inviting, and offered a taste of heavy black coffee. His tongue swept across my parted lips and traveled calmly along my gum line and teeth. For a brief moment, I wondered how my breath was, but the thought went as fleetingly as it came. Booth raised a hand to my face, laying his thumb along my jaw line and his other fingers on my neck. Within seconds he pulled back from my face and looked at me quizzically.

"Your pulse is really high, Bones." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Not to disappoint, but I'm not exactly cleared for that kinda activity just yet." He rapped his knuckles on his temple and smiled.

My face became flushed and I laughed briefly. "No, I was having a rather realistic and intense dream when you came in and surprised me." I paused, calculating my words as to not have to explain myself further. "I think I'm just tired."

He pulled away and stood. "I'll leave you to sleep then. Although you're going to have jet lag if you sleep much longer." He turned the lamp off and retreated from the bed toward the door.

I had seemingly no control over what escaped my lips next. "Don't."

Booth paused in the doorway, his shoulders moving in what I imagined to be a small laugh. He closed the door behind him, removed his shoes, and climbed into the bed beside me. His arm slid around my waist and pulled me back toward the center of the bed until my back was against his chest. I shivered as the combination of his warm body mixed with the chilly, untouched sheets he and I were now occupying. I clasped my hand around his and fell back into a deep slumber.

I woke up some time later to a gentle tap on the shoulder. If it hadn't been for the nightmares I'd already endured that night, I wouldn't have been woken up so easily. I lifted my sleep mask to find Booth staring at me, eyes open wide.

"Hey, Bones, uh, I have to ask you a question." His brow furrowed. My brain – although sluggishly – suddenly began to prepare strategies for the potentially damaging question that was coming next. The awkwardness and hesitation I sensed from his tone gave me the impression that the question was relationship-related. Was he reneging from our previous verbal contract to decide to be 'together?' Was he going to ask about when we could become intimate? Did he want to talk about his diagnosis and prognosis again? My mind raced a mile a minute as I considered this. I nodded him on feverishly, realizing that I could not form a rational answer without having at least having heard the question first.

"Do you wanna get some food? I'm starving."


End file.
